CSI: Miami: Exploding Mind
by Bas450
Summary: When a bomber strikes Miami and Lt. Horatio Caine has to shoot a suspect in self-defense, it is revealed there is another bomb somewhere in Miami. When searching for a similart M.O. in the FBI database, the FBIs Behavioral Analysis Unit gets involved.
1. Chapter 1

**1**

The gun bucked and the cartridge was ejected. The smell of cordite hung in the air and stung in the ginger-haired man's nostrils. The bang echoed through the empty hall and resounded thrice. The man lowered his SIG Sauer P229 and smiled bitterly.

Horatio Caine was Lieutenant with and supervisor off the Miami-Dade Police Department's CSI-division. He was wearing his usual business-casual attire – a light-grey suit (no vest), a blue button-up shirt open at the collar and black loafers. His usual sunglasses hung safely around his neck.

"Stay down," Horatio said, striding over to the man on the floor.

He knelt next to the victim, holding his SIG in one hand. He cocked his head towards the man on the floor and shook it.

"What are they plotting?" he asked.

The man coughed, an eruption of tiny blood spatter. "I ain't telling you nothing."

"Well, José, that's where your wrong."

Horatio placed his hand on the wound in the man's abdomen and pressed down on it, hard. José screamed and gyrated, gritted his teeth. Horatio relinquished the wound and José lay on the concrete floor, panting.

"Now, José, again. What are they plotting?"

"There is another bomb," José said, his mouth turning into a sneer. "somewhere in Miami. I ain't telling you where it is."

Suddenly, José pushed Horatio, who toppled over. His SIG spun across the floor, stopping about three feet from Horatio. José pulled a little knife from his back pocket and sliced it along his throat, blood erupting from the artery and his limp hand relinquishing the knife with a clatter. Horatio tried to stop the bleeding, but was too late. A large pool of blood spread out over the concrete floor of the factory and the dead man's eyes stared at the ceiling without seeing. Horatio sighed and closed the man's eyes. He stood up, took out his cell phone and punched a speed dial.

"Eric, it's Horatio. Call in the cavalry, there's another bomb in Miami!"

"What the hell's going on anyway," Ryan Wolfe said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. His brown hair was ruffled and he wasn't wearing his usual crisp attire. He was wearing a grey T-shirt and jeans.

Southern-born Calleigh Duquesne shrugged. She, too, wasn't clothed up to her usual standards in a purple shirt and grey slacks. She held out her own MDPD-logo emblazoned mug and Ryan poured her a cup. "Dunno, all I know is it's gotta do with that bomb that went off three weeks ago."

They ambled through the fluorescent lit hallway towards the conference room. The Miami-Dade Crime Lab, housed at MDPD HQ, was state-of-the-art. The latest technology was used in the building with its angled Louvre-panels and pale-green walls. The sky outside was dark-blue streaked with lighter blue clouds. Though Horatio's team usually worked the day-shift, they were called in by Horatio at 10 P.M. that night. Yawning again, the two CSIs went into the conference room and plopped into one of the chairs.

Horatio came in, four evidence folders under his arm and a cup of coffee in one hand. Behind him walked Eric Delko in jeans and black shirt and vest. He plopped into a chair as well, but Horatio remained standing. The conference room was at the end of the corridor, with glass-and-steel walls on three sides and a large ceiling-high window overlooking Biscayne Bay. Calleigh and Ryan looked at Horatio questioningly, while Eric suppressed a yawn, or at least tried to. Horatio sighed and placed the folders on the table. He passed them to Ryan and beckoned him to pass them around.

"Okay, people," he said. "Today I was in a shoot-out with José Molinez, the man we pegged to be responsible for the truck stop bombing three weeks ago."

"Didn't Anti-Crime handle that case?" Calleigh asked with her profound Southern lilt.

"They did," Horatio said, smiling. "However, they kicked the case to us when it hit a dead end. We found the lead leading to Molinez. I went to question him, but he didn't cooperate. There was a shoot-out and before I could get anything useful out of him he slit his own throat. Dr. Loman is posting him as we speak. As soon as he gets the results he'll send them to our phones in an email."

"What do you need us to do?" Wolfe asked, sipping his coffee.

"Go through the file again, blank. Call me if you need more manpower, everything to catch this guy."

"H," said Eric. "I'll call the FBI, I'm their Miami VICAP-partner. I'll ask them to send over every file on any possible signatures matching our bomber."

"Go," Horatio said with a little nod.

"Ryan and I'll go look at the files," said Calleigh, picking up the stack off files. She nudged Ryan in the ribs and cocked her head to an empty, smaller conference room down the corridor.

"I'll be in the field, call me when you need anything."

Ryan and Calleigh plopped into chairs in the smaller conference room. Eric had stalked off to Calleigh's office around the corner – one of the perks og being the assistant supervisor was her own office with an unobstructed view over the Pacific – to call the FBI field office. Calleigh put down her MDPD mug and sighed.

_The bomber parked his SUV and ground his steering wheel-mounted into the "PARK"-position. He got out, locked the vehicle – a rental, rented under a fake name with matching fake ID – and entered the café/restroom. The bomb was placed in the army-green messenger bag slung around his shoulder. He entered and nodded to the waitress as he stalked by and entered the toilet labeled "GENTS". He lifted the bomb from the bag and fitted it underneath the reservoir in one of the stalls. He set the timer on one hour and pressed the button on top. He then went into the next. He washed his hands and re-entered the café. He ordered a coffee, paid and the drove off in his SUV, which he returned to the rental company that same afternoon, less than an hour after he placed the bomb, even before it exploded._

_The bomb eventually claimed fifteen lives. The first ten had been killed instantly, under which was the waitress. They were killed by the power of the blast as they were less than ten feet from the scene of detonation. The next three died by shrapnel piercing their vital organs. The last two died the day after, after they succumbed to the wounds inflicted by shrapnel and internal damage from the force of the blast._

_It had taken Horatio's CSI-team three weeks to pin José Molinez as the bomber. They had matched the footage salvaged from the security system to his DMV-photo – with thanks to A/V-tech Dave Benson. Horatio had gotten the result right that day and went out to apprehend Molinez alone, which ended up in the latter being shot and killed. And revealing another bomb in Miami, with no indication where and when it would go off…_

Calleigh flipped through the files and jotted down notes on the A5-sized wirebound notepad she had brought along. Horatio's report on the bombing / shooting was extensive and full of detail. As soon as the FBI-reports would come in they would cross-reference the points she and Ryan jotted down. Hopefully that would get them some kind of lead.

Horatio wasn't much for sitting by idly while his team was working as hard as they could to solve a case. Though he was promoted to Lieutenant ten years ago, he hadn't sit still ever since he transferred Robbery/Homicide for Crime Scene Investigations. And he wasn't about to start now. Though officially a Crime Scene Investigator, Horatio had not lost the knack off old-fashioned police work, even with the millions of expensive gadgets at his disposal. He had retained his old CIs and even leaned on them from time-to-time to get information inaccessible for "regular" MDPD Detectives.

The Hummer's engine roar died out when Horatio parked it along the curb of Southwest 134th Street in Little Havana. The neighbourhood was exactly what it was called: a lively smaller replica of the Cuban capital. Spanish music drummed out of ghetto blasters at every other corner or blaring out of cantinas and bodegas. Horatio loved Little Havana, its people and especially its food and drinks. He didn't know any other place in the whole of Miami where he could get a decent Café Cubano, except for Félipe's Bodega.

Horatio locked the Hummer, which he had parked around the corner from Félipe's. He had dropped his MDPD parking permit on the dash, as he had parked in a no parking-zone. To avoid outing the CI he was going to meet, he pulled his badge from his belt and slipped in into the pocket of his blazer. He also made sure his gun wasn't exposed as he rounded the corner. He slid into a chair at one of the round table on Félipe's terrace. He waved over the waitress and she strode over to him with a broad smile.

'How can I help you, sir,' she said with a heavy Spanish accent, slapping a notepad on the stainless steel serving tray she was carrying.

'A Café Cubano, please.'

'Certainly, sir.' She smile at him again and he reciprocated, flashing one of his own.

Two minutes later the waitress put down his coffee. She smiled at him again and turned away. Horatio looked up and down the street and then checked his watch. He saw movement in the corner of his eye and he looked up. A lanky Latino had slid into the seat across Horatio's. He was wearing a greasy grey sleeveless T-shirt, navy coveralls – opened halfway and with the sleeves knotted around his waist – and white sneakers, stained with grease as well. He wasn't much older than twenty-two. His arms were covered in colourful tattoos, one of which was a black and red tribal design.

'Hey, _hermano_,' the man said. 'didn't know you were working nights now.'

Horatio glanced at his watch: 10.30 pm. 'Know what, Ruben? Neither did I.'

'So, whatcha doin' here, Caine?'

'I need information.'

'What else is new? Hit me.'

'José Molinez.'

'Whoa, man. Whatcha want with the big guns? Molinez is one SOB, I tell ya. What the hell'd you want with him?'

Horatio looked the Latino in the eyes. 'Molinez is dead. He planted a bomb right here in Miami. And like hell I'm going to let that slide. Tell me what you know about him. Hangouts, affiliations, the works.'

'All I know is that he ain't in any gang. What I did hear was that he was rolling with some of Nunez's dudes. Rumour has it that they were looking to get their paws on some serious hardware. I'm not talking rocket launchers, Caine, I'm talking A-bomb.'

'Really?' Horatio said. 'When and where?'

Ruben shrugged. 'Two or three weeks ago? Where? I dunno. Nunez rolls in Calle Ocho, so safest bet would there. Then again, I doubt Nunez authorised a bomb in Miami, so in that case it would not be wise to prepare on Nunez' turf.'

'Hmm. So, basically what you're saying is they could be preparing this anywhere?'

'Well, yeah. I ain't the bomb squad, so beats me why you came to me anyway.'

'No, you're not the bomb squad. But you are my resident snitch in the Cuban community.' Horatio whispered the last part to keep other people on the terrace from overhearing.

'Would you mind not saying that? You're gonna get me killed!'

Horatio flicked a smile. 'Nah, I won't.'

Ruben smiled as well and shook hands with Horatio. The two men got up and Horatio dropped a five dollar bill on the Formica table. The two parted ways at the curb; Ruben crossed the street and Horatio turned left to get back to the Hummer parked in the alley.

That was when he saw the suspicious vehicle. A new BMW 7-series stood halfway down the block, in the middle of the road. There were at least two men in the car, but it was hard to make out. Horatio glanced back at Ruben, who was still waiting for the traffic light to turn green. Imaginary all kinds of bells went off inside Horatio's head. He grabbed his badge from his pocket with one hand, clipped it to the breast pocket of his blazer and pulled his SIG. He cocked the hammer and spun around.

'Everybody, GET DOWN!' he yelled. 'MIAMI-DADE POLICE!'

Several people screamed and Ruben turned on his heels. Horatio started down the road, while behind him the BMW accelerated. Horatio holstered his weapon, ducked into another alley – pulling Ruben along by his shoulders – and came up on one knee, SIG in hand. The BMW skid past.

'Come on!' Horatio said, dashing out of the alley. He made sure Ruben was in front of him. He glanced back and saw the BMW make a U-turn.

'In here!' Horatio unlocked the Hummer, pushed Ruben toward the passenger's seat and climbed in. He started the engine, flipped on the flashers and revved the engine. He accelerated the moment the BMW stopped in front of the alley, blocking the way out. The Hummer banged into the BMW's flank. Horatio rocked back-and-forth and his head banged against the wheel. He drew his SIG immediately. He ground the gear into reverse and backed up the car. One of the men inside the BMW got out. Horatio elbowed out the window and trained his gun on him. He then drove the Hummer over the curb and drove off.


	2. Chapter 2

**2**

Horatio dropped Ruben off at MDPD HQ, under loud protest of the latter. He then dropped off his damaged Hummer at the motor pool. He met up with Eric Delko in the crime lab's atrium.

'Mr. Delko,' he said.

'H, I just got off the phone with the FBI. Apparently, my VICAP-search flagged something over in Quantico. I got a call back from Penelope Garcia, technical analyst with the Behavioral Analysis Unit?'

A smile twitched at the corner of Horatio's mouth. 'Profilers…'

'Yeah,' Eric said. 'Anyway, apparently they've been after a bomber with the same signature for over a month. Ms. Garcia asked to speak with the lead detective on the case, which is you.'

'Did you get the files?'

'No. Garcia said that the files are either sent to the lead detective and no one else. Or they come in with the team, but in order for that to happen we need to invite them in.'

'They seem anything like Sackheim?'

Dennis Sackheim was a Supervisory Special Agent with the FBI Field Office in Miami. He and Horatio had crossed paths more than the latter would like, and in every case Sackheim had come out clean; either by putting the Miami-Dade Crime Lab and Horatio's team in discredit or by hijacking an arrest made on evidence gathered by the CSIs. These instances had cause quite some tension between the FBI and MDPD and had made Horatio reluctant to accept any help offered by the FBI.

'Nah. Garcia seemed like a nice girl. Besides, the fact that they request us to invite them in speaks for them. They're not out to hijack our case, H.'

'Okay. I will give them a call, invite them in. Guess their experience will come in handy enough. Meanwhile, interview Ruben. See what he's got to say on the attempt on his life.'

Ruben Morales had been arrested by Horatio numerous times in the last two years. He had two DWIs – Driving While Intoxicated – on his rap sheet and was up for his third strike, and a lifelong suspension of his driver license, when Horatio offered him a choice: either he was going down or he became Horatio's confidential informant and the last arrest would be wiped from the records. He opted for the latter and had been an invaluable source of information for Horatio, and his CSIs, ever since. Though none of the CSIs had ever spoken to Morales, his information had helped them on the right track on many cases. And not to mention, he was young and could mingle with the Cuban crowd very easily.

'Mr. Morales,' said Eric. He slumped into the desk chair opposite the black granite table in the MDPD interrogation room. 'What a day, wasn't it?'

The room was not a typical, depressing room. Instead it was light, with mint-green walls and large windows with honeycomb bars in front of them, casting a peculiar shape of light blotches on the grey slate floor and table. There were no hard backed iron chairs, but comfortable black desk chairs. The wall overlooking the Robbery/Homicide bullpen was all glass and in that corner a uniformed officer stood sentinel during interrogation.

'Tell me 'bout it,' Morales said. Though he was in an interrogation room, he was not under arrest and he knew he wasn't going to be anytime soon either. 'One moment I'm talking to the Lieu, second the dude's pulling me into an alley, pushing me into a car and getting out of there like a bat out of hell.'

Eric smiled and said, 'Mr. Morales, do you have any idea who'd want you dead?'

'Nah, not really. Maybe Nunez, but would he be so stupid to run me over?'

'I don't know, you tell me. Why would Mr. Nunez want you dead?'

'I'm the guy that got half his posse in jail. You do the math, genius.'

'So, you think Nunez harbours some kind of grudge against you?'

'Well, duh.'

'We'll check into it,' Eric said. He beckoned the officer outside to come in. 'Officer, please escort Mr. Morales to holding.'

'Wai- What? Holding? Are you arresting me, gringo?' Morales spat on the floor.

'Ey, _hermano_,' Eric said, his face less than an inch from Morales'. 'I am no gringo, I'm Cuban. And I am not placing you under arrest. It's called protective custody. Somebody tried to kill you today and we can't be sure they'll try again. You got a problem with that, talk to Horatio.'

'Whoa, man, I didn't mean to…'

'Save it. Officer?'

Ryan shone his flashlight up and down the street. A few feet next to him, Calleigh Duquesne was kneeling at the curb, looking into the alley. The two CSIs were sent to the scene of the clash by Horatio. Though they were primarily working on the still missing bomb, this had priority until the files came in.

The quiet Little Havana street where Horatio had parked his Hummer a mere hour ago had turned into a crime scene straight from a cop show. Two green-and-whites on either side, with their LED-bars painting the night red and blue. Half the block was cordoned off by one strand of yellow police tape spanned between the traffic lights on either side of the street on one side and another strand spanned between two cars on the other side. Police officers wandering about, taking statements from the witnesses that hadn't run off after the BMW had almost run them over. Halogen lights on standards, lighting the street more brightly than by daylight.

'Hey, Ryan?' Calleigh called with her southern lilt. 'how did these guys know when Morales would be here?'

'Dunno…H said the Beamer was waiting about halfway down the block, though.'

'Okay, but still. How did they know Morales was going to be _here_, you know. They must have had some kind of hint as to what he was doing…'

'You thinking stalking?'

'How else? I mean, as far as Horatio knows it wasn't common knowledge that Morales was his snitch.'

Ryan nodded non-committal and sat on his haunches. He had wandered off the place Horatio had indicated as the starting point of the BMW's attack. He was carrying his field kit with him and had slung his Nikon digital camera around his shoulder by its strap. He grabbed his camera and took a series of pictures of the tire tracks on the asphalt. The tracks became lighter at the end, which indicated acceleration. He dropped a tent-shaped evidence marker next to the tracks and used a ruler to measure the length of the track. He made a note of his findings on the evidence log and map.

'Got tracks here,' he said. 'about a foot in length, lighter in the direction they took off in indicates acceleration. This was a planned hit.'

'Wheelbase consistent with a full-size sedan?'

Ryan retracted the tape measure he used to measure the width of the tracks as he said, 'Oh, yeah.'

'So, we've just proven that this was indeed intended as a hit… Any indication it's related to the bomb case?'

'Not yet. Though I do find it suspicious that Morales was targeted exactly the same moment he was meeting Horatio to give MDPD information about Nunez.'

'Ryan, we don't even know if Nunez is involved.'

Ryan shrugged as he joined Calleigh at the curb. 'Morales is.'

Calleigh looked up at her partner. 'Yeah, well, forgive me that I do not take a man convicted for DWI twice at face value.'

'Me neither, but H trusts him. If H does, so do I.'

'Special Agent Hotchner?' Horatio asked through the phone. He was sitting in his office, the horn of his desk phone to his ear. He had gotten the FBI-agents phone number from Penelope Garcia.

'This is Aaron Hotchner. Who is this?'

'I'm Lieutenant Horatio Caine with Miami-Dade PD. I spoke to Ms. Garcia earlier this evening?'

'Ah, yes. You have a bomber on your hands.'

'I do. Ms. Garcia told me you were investigating a bomber with the exact same signature?'

'We are. He has been crossing all along the southern border for months. He has struck in Texas, Louisiana and now Florida.'

'So, how can I make use of your expertise, SSA Hotchner?'

'Are you going to invite us in?'

'I am,' Horatio said.

'Have your chief send an official request to Deputy Director Erin Strauss at the Quantico Field Office. In the meantime, I'll get my team on a plane and meet you in Miami.'

'When will you get here?'

'Tomorrow morning at eleven. I want to send two of my team members to the crime scene. Can you give me the GPS-coordinates?'

Horatio gave them to him. Hotchner assured Horatio they would meet the next day. Horatio disconnected the call and sighed. He called his team into the conference room, including Ryan and Calleigh, who had just returned from the Little Havana crime scene.

'FBI is coming in tomorrow,' he addressed his team.

'How many agents?'

'The BAU-team flying consists of five agents and a media liaison. They seem like good people. Though I know we have had unpleasant with a certain Special Agent of the Miami Field Office…' Ryan snorted, but knew better than to elaborate on the matter when he noticed Horatio's glare. 'I'd prefer it if you'd set your prejudices aside.'

'Will do, H,' Calleigh assured him, nudging Ryan in the ribs with her elbow.

'Okay, let's call it a night. Tomorrow back here at start of shift. Calleigh, you welcome the agents here. I will meet the two agents checking out the crime scene. Have a good one, ladies and gentlemen.'

And with that, the team rose as one and dispersed. Ryan stalked off to the locker room, Eric and Calleigh took the first elevator down to the garage and Horatio locked his office. He sighed and said to himself, 'Here we go…'


	3. Chapter 3

CSI: Miami – Exploding Mind

**3**

Aaron Hotchner got off the elevator at the MDPD Crime Lab's floor, stepping into a bright atrium. He took off his sunglasses and observed the surroundings for a while. Green wall, backlit by fluorescent lamps behind frost glass Louvre-panels set at a forty-five degree angle. Large windows overlooking the bay, just a mere half-mile from MDPD HQ. A reception desk manned by an officer in a crisp brown-and-tan MDPD uniform. Black stone floor and labs and offices with glass walls, so that everyone could see the people doing their work. No doors, just empty doorways, except for two offices at the end of the corridor, which had expensive looking metal doors. Judging by the nameplates on said doors, Hotchner assumed them to be the office of the director and team supervisor.

Behind him two other people had gotten of the elevator. Hotchner finished his sizing-up and ambled up to the reception desk. The officer looked up at him and smiled at him professionally.

'Good morning, sir. How may I be of service?'

Hotchner held up his credentials in their leather wallet. 'ssa Aaron Hotchner, FBI. I'm here to meet Horatio Caine or Calleigh Duquesne.'

The officer punched in a series of keys on a keyboard. 'Lieutenant Caine is in the field, but Sergeant Duquesne is in. If you wait here a second, I'll call her down.'

Hotchner met up with the other two agents. Less than a minute later a platinum-blonde woman in a businesslike suit strode down the corridor, high-heeled boots clapping on the stone floor. She smiled broadly as she held out a hand to Hotchner, who shook it.

'Hi, my name is Calleigh Duquesne,' the woman said. 'You must be the FBI.'

'Yes, ma'am,' Hotchner said. 'I'm Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner and these are ssa David Rossi and Dr. Spencer Reid.'

Hotchner was wearing the usual FBI-uniform: black suit, white button-down and black tie. He had clasped his badge to the breast pocket of his blazer. Rossi was in his fifties, with black hair greying at the temples. He was wearing less official attire; jeans, brown leather blazer and deep-purple button-down. Reid looked more like a college grad student than an FBI agent with his short brown hair, wearing a navy cardigan, light-blue button-down and grey chinos. He carried a brown leather messenger bag and his holster was prominently visible, as he carried it not on his hip, but his abdomen.

'ssas Derek Morgan and Emily Prentiss are at the scene.'

Calleigh nodded. 'Yes, which is where they will meet our supervisor, Lt. Caine.'

'Did Ms. Garcia tell you what we need?'

Calleigh nodded again and gestured the FBI agents to follow her. They ambled down the corridor until Calleigh ducked into the very conference room where Horatio had told them about the second bomb. However, in expectance of the FBI some changes had been made. Two whiteboards had been rolled in, several boxes of files and reports perched in the middle of the table. The plasma was displaying the crime scene photos taken by the CSIs in twenty second intervals.

'Ms. Garcia specifically told us that this is all you need to do your job.'

'Thank you, Sergeant.'

'Aahw, call me Calleigh. If ya'll need me, I'm in the office at the end of the corridor on your right.'

Calleigh made to walk out of the room, but spun on her heels. She took several cards from the pocket of her blazer. 'Home number is on the back, you'll find Lieutenant Caine's as well. You can call either of us, day or night.'

'Thank you…Calleigh,' Hotchner said.

When Calleigh had left the room, Rossi turned to Hotchner. 'Is it just me or is she on par with Garcia in terms of perkiness?'

The two older men looked at Reid, who – as usual – looked at them blankly.

Horatio eyeballed the FBI as soon as they drove up the driveway leading to the bombed rest stop off the I-95, officially called Singer Expressway. The Chevrolet Avalanche ambled up to Horatio, who stood next to his H3 with his hands on his hips. The two agents climbed out and met with Horatio.

One of them was an African-American male in his thirties, roughly the same age as Eric Delko. He was wearing a slate-grey T-shirt and black cargo pants. His badge hung on a lanyard around his neck. The female agent was roughly Calleigh's age, mid-thirties. She had bound her black hair in a ponytail and was wearing a red blouse and grey slacks, of which the matching blazer was missing. She had clasped her badge to her belt. Both were wearing sunglasses.

'Lieutenant Caine?' the woman asked.

'Yes.'

They shook hands as the man IDed himself and the woman, 'Hi, I'm Derek Morgan and this is Emily Prentiss, BAU. How you doin'?'

Horatio smiled and said, 'I take it your supervisor has arrived at our lab?'

'We think so,' Prentiss smiled. 'we haven't been in contact since we hit the asphalt. I take it you don't like the FBI?'

'How come?' Horatio asked.

'Please, Lieutenant. I'm a profiler. Only the tone of your voice when you asked about our supervisor gave you away.'

'That obvious, huh?'

Prentiss smiled again. 'Let's work on changing that attitude of yours.'

The three of them walked to the rubble that had once been quite a successful truck stop. Horatio even had lunch there himself on occasion. They ducked the yellow tape and removed their sunglasses.

'Three weeks ago this truck stop went sky high,' Horatio said. 'Bomb was placed in the bathroom, behind one of the toilets. It was set on a timer, set to nine-thirty am. They hit on Monday, busiest day of the week for this kind of place.'

'I understand you had a suspect?' Prentiss said.

'Yes. José Molinez. We IDed him via a money trail. He worked for a gang in Miami which made a habit of blowing up traitors and enemies with car bombs. He was the one who supplied the C4 used in the bombing.'

'And what happened when you went to make the arrest?' Morgan asked on his haunches. He had picked up a piece of debris with a black latex glove.

'Mr. Molinez drew his gun on me. I shot him in the gut and just before he died he said there was a second bomb.'

'And you took that at face value?'

'No, of course I didn't. One of my CIs told me that rumour on the street was there was indeed a bomb, somewhere. Short thereafter someone tried to kill him.'

'Where is that CI now?'

'Protective custody at MDPD HQ,' Horatio said.

Horatio's phone vibrated in his inside pocket. Morgan's and Prentiss' beeped twice. Horatio glanced at the display and pressed answer.

Twenty minutes later Horatio shook hands with Rossi, Reid and Hotchner in the conference room. The whiteboard he had loaned from the office supplies floor was full of notes, pictures and all types of other information. Horatio sat down in one of the chairs, joined by Calleigh and Ryan. Delko sat down next to Morgan and Prentiss. Reid, Rossi and Hotchner took centre stage, a laptop with a video uplink with the Quantico field office displaying a red-headed and bespectacled woman.

Hotchner cleared his throat, 'we called this meeting because we believe we found a common denominator in our victimology.'

'Sorry, victimology?' Calleigh said.

'Yes. To understand the nature of the crime we need to understand what attracts our UnSub, short for unknown subject, to his victims. In this case all victims were truckers. Also, all four times he has struck up until now the targets were truck stops along busy roads.'

'But,' Eric said. 'there were no singular victims here.'

Rossi took over. 'In this case the truck stops are the victims. In a sense. As Special Agent Hotchner said, all four were located along busy roads. Secondly, all were hit on Mondays, the busiest days for that type of establishments. Lastly, none of the targeted stops were part of a franchise. They were singular establishments, meaning that when they were destroyed the owner or owners went bankrupt.'

'Which brings us to motive,' said Reid. 'Money. Statistically more than sixty percent of all crimes in the United States are committed because of some dispute over money or other financials.'

'So this could include physical things that _act_ as money?' Calleigh asked.

'Yes, quite possibly,' Hotchner answered.

'Ms. Garcia?' Horatio said, leaning around Wolfe, addressing the woman.

'Yes, sir?'

'With Agent Hotchner's permission,' Horatio said, glancing at Hotchner, who nodded. 'is there a way to cross reference the financials of the targeted rest stops with license plates of cars?'

'There certainly is, Lieutenant. All I need is a license plate, make and model.'

Horatio thumbed through his notepad until he reached a page on which he had scribbled some notes.

'Got it.'

'Give it to me.'

Horatio raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly. Morgan tried his best to hide his grin, but to no avail. 'All right, Ms. Garcia. BMW 5-series, 2009 model. Grey. License plate 5674-POT, Florida state plates.'

'Your wish is my command, sir. I'll ring you up when I'm done.'

'My number is…'

'I've got your number, sir. Garcia out.'

The laptop screen went black and a resounding silence filled the conference room. Horatio's team was baffled with the quirkiness of the technical analyst, while Hotchner's team gave the CSIs the time to process what they had just experienced. Morgan described it as the Garcia-effect.

Horatio's phone buzzed in his inside pocket. He retrieved it and looked at the screen. He opened the text message and scanned it quickly. He stood up and turned to the team.

'Mr. Wolfe, your with me. The rest bring our guests of the FBI up to speed. Agent Hotchner, if it's okay I'd like to take Agent Morgan along as well.'

'Of course.'

Fifteen minutes later Horatio eased his Hummer to the curb and got out of the suv. He pulled his field kit from the trunk and flashed his badge to the officer at the yellow tape. The crime scene was a strip of green – grass and trees – that separated Washington Boulevard from Washington Beach. They were at the edge of the beach where a rock embankment trailed off into the ocean. At the top of the slope of rocks stood the BMW that had tried to run over Horatio's witness. Horatio observed the scene from a distance while snapping on gloves. He felt Morgan stop next to him.

'That the car?' the Agent asked.

'Yes, it is.'

Horatio tiptoed down the rocks to where the car was, trying his best not to lose his balance. He perched his kit on top of a rock and pulled his Mini Maglite from his inside pocket. He shone the flashlight into the car and squinted. He pulled the handle and to his surprise the car's door opened. He knelt and inspected the inside of the car.

A smear of blood dirtied the beige steering wheel. Horatio snapped a couple of photos and swabbed the blood, which was still moist. He placed the capped cotton-tip in a brown evidence envelope and jotted his initials on its label.

'Vin number's been filed off,' Morgan said. The agent had hung his sunglasses in his collar and bent forward to see through the windshield.

'Plates are missing, too,' Wolfe chimed in from the rear end of the car. 'Hey H, pull the trunk release, please.'

Horatio lifted the lever and the trunk's lid popped open. Ryan lifted it all the way up and used his Maglite to light the insides of the boot. He wolf-whistled. Horatio, not wanting to leave the driver's seat glanced through the rear mirror. Morgan tromped over to the younger CSI.

'Lieutenant Caine? There's a whole lot of ammo in here. And two AK-47s.'

'Wolfe, bag and tag them. Agent Morgan, I hope you remembered your crime scene basics?'

'I do.'

'Good, cause you're are tertiary deputy CSI for now…'

Horatio leaned forward and placed his hand on the glove compartment latch. He rummaged through the compartment and retrieved a gun. The gun was .38 snub-nose revolver by Smith & Wesson. Horatio opened the cylinder and counted the unfired rounds: 3 bullets spent, 3 unfired. He bagged the weapon, the unspent rounds and the empty cartridges in separate bags. He initialed them all and placed them in his kit.

'Got a revolver,' he reported to Wolfe and Morgan. 'Three rounds fired.'

Horatio moved from the front of the car to the back. He pilled open the back door and knelt next to the car, without entering the back. He used his Maglite to light the interior, more specifically the floor. The car was one of the more recent 7-series, so he didn't expect much wear-and-tear yet. But what he found was just that. Horatio snapped a couple of photos of the wear pattern of the rug. He then bent forward to inspect the rug more closely. There were some grey-coloured fibers embedded in the sturdy fibers. Horatio collected them with a pair of tweezers and placed them in a small specimen jar. He tagged them and placed them in his kit. On the tags he also wrote the specific department the evidence had to be processed by. The fibers would be carted off to Trace Analysis as soon as they arrived at the lab. Horatio moved his attention to the backseat of the sedan. He leaned in and looked at it up close. He though he saw some kind of indentation in the leather. He held his Maglite perpendicular to the seat's surface and there it was, a darker void. It was rectangular, roughly three feet by eleven inches. He grabbed his camera and took a picture, without a flash so as to picture the indentation he just uncovered. A uncharacteristic shudder of suspense – Horatio was hardly ever touched by cases that much – shot through him. He took put a cotton pad – the type women used to remove make-up – and sprayed tetrachloride onto it. He ran the pad over the indentation and then sprayed it with hexamethylchlorate. The tetrachloride would bind to and absorb any particles left in the indentation. The hexamethylchlorate would undergo a chemical reaction with the smallest trace amount of TNT. The pad turned bright green.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' Horatio said, smiling. 'We have a winner. And TNT it is.'

Wolfe poked his head around the edge of the trunk. 'The TNT was transported in this BMW?'

'It appears so, Mr. Wolfe.'

'Damn. I sure hope that Ms. Garcia can tie the BMW to a name.'

Horatio nodded and then waved over the flatbed waiting at the edge of the cordoned off area. 'Gentlemen, take this car to the CSI garage, please.'


	4. Chapter 4

CSI: Miami – Exploding Mind

**4**

The iPhone vibrated on the mahogany bedside table. Horatio turned in his half-sleep and looked at the screen. The MDPD crest filled the display and Frank Tripp's name appeared on the screen. Tripp was a MDPD Robbery/Homicide Sergeant and usually worked together with Horatio's CSIs. He was working the bombings from the street angle.

'Yes, Frank?'

'No, not Frank,' a voice said on the other end of the line. 'Frank is a bit busy right now.'

'Who are you?' Horatio asked.

'None of your concern. However, what _is_ of your concern is the fate of your partner. You see, his survival depends on whether or not you give us what we want. Now, the only one allowed to do that are the members of your team. And with that I don't mean the _federales_ that you brought in.'

Horatio had, in the meantime, taken his personal cell phone and sent a text message to Garcia.

'Understood. What do you want me to do?'

'I want you to drop investigating the bombings. You see, our _jeffe_ is not that pleased that MDPD is defending his competition. And he is willing to go to extremes to prove that he is serious.'

Horatio's other cell phone vibed and he read the message quickly. According to Garcia, the caller was across the street. He got up, glad he was wearing his jogging pants and a T-shirt, strode over to his chest of drawers and pulled open the top drawer. He punched in the code of his safe. He pulled his badge from the safe, hung it around his neck on its beaded chain and grabbed his gun. He left the apartment.

'All right,' he said. 'Tell me what I need to do exactly.'

'Make the evidence you found in the BMW disappear. We do not want it to be known that we used TNT to bomb the rest stops.'

'And how do you think I am able to pull that off. FBI was brought in on the case, the evidence is under lock and key and the brass is all over this case.'

'Well, you are the CSI Lieutenant. Be creative.'

Horatio had reached the side door of the apartment building and sighed. He muted his iPhone and slipped it into his pocket. He then placed a hand on the door handle. He pushed the handle down and stepped outside, holding his SIG Sauer P229 aloft. There were several cars parked along the street, but one stood out; a black '98 Dodge Sprinter with tinted windows. Horatio stayed low and swerved between cars before stalking across the street. He pressed himself up against the van's flank and slid towards the driver's side door. When he was there he placed a hand on the door handle, cocked the hammer of his SIG and tried to open the door. It was locked. The engine sprang to life and whoever was manning the vehicle put the pedal to the metal. Horatio was dragged along as he was still clutching the door handle. When the van hit the corner, Horatio was swung away from it. He was flung through the air and landed on the asphalt, hard. He rolled over a few times and heard the dull clank of his gun dropping on the floor a few feet further. And then all went black.

The flashes of the patrol cars hurt Horatio's eyes. He squinted as an EMT applied some Betadine to the cut on his brow. The EMT apologised as he placed a bandage on the cut. He then tapped Horatio on the shoulder to signal he was done.

Calleigh thanked the EMT and smiled at Horatio.

'How's the old noggin'?' she asked.

'Going to be fine.'

'I called Delko. He's on his way. Traffic is murder. One cop gets wounded and the whole of Miami flips upside down.'

Horatio smiled. Even though the conversation had the air of indifference on Calleigh's part, it was actually a cop's way of saying "I got your back.".

Horatio hopped off the gurney and stretched his neck. His T-shirt was torn at the left and backside and his jogging pants were scuffed with tarmac. He got up and walked up to the front doors of his apartment building. Five minutes later he reappeared sporting a pair of dark jeans and a burgundy pullover. He had his kit in his hands.

Another set of yelling sirens which suddenly died out made Horatio look at the yellow tape. A black GMC Yukon stopped, the red-and-blue visor flashers still on, and Agents Morgan and Hotchner – both in casual clothes: jeans, T-shirt and the mandatory FBI-jacket. They flashed their credentials at the uniform guarding the tape and ducked underneath it. They ambled up to Horatio.

'Lieutenant,' Hotchner said. 'are you feeling all right?'

'I will be when we find Frank, agent.'

'Please, call me Hotch. I called Ms. Garcia at the FBI, she said you contacted her to find out where the abductor was calling from.'

'Yes, she pinpointed the location to across the street.'

'Where you found what?' Morgan asked.

'A grey, '98 Dodge Sprinter. Took off in the direction of Biscayne Bay.'

'We put out an ABP on the car. We also allocated a lot of Miami-Dade PD resources to the search for Sergeant Tripp. Dr. Reid and Ryan are at his house, processing the scene. Prentiss and Rossi are at PD, interviewing Robbery/Homicide personnel and liaising with Tripp's Captain.'

'All right,' Horatio, placing a hand on the shoulder of each agent. 'Thank you.'

Ryan Wolfe jerked the Hummer to a halt and he and Special Agent Reid got out of the suv. They flashed their IDs and duked the yellow crime scene tape, pulling on blue nitrile gloves as they went; Ryan tugging along his field kit. When they reached the front door, both men froze.

'This…is not good,' Reid said.

'No, it's not,' said Wolfe, pulling out his camera.

Tripp lived in Coconut Grove, in a one-story white stucco bungalow. The window and door panes where made of ebony and there was a gravel path leading from the driveway to the front door, halfway intersected by an identical path leading to the sidewalk. The front door was open, unhinged. There was an indent in the wood and the feint outline of a shoeprint. Ryan snapped pictures of the door and then opened his kit. He applied some fingerprint dust to the outline of the shoe and lifted it by using an A4-size slab of adhesive tape. He initialed it and put it away.

Ryan turned to the uniformed officer, who stood with his thumbs hooked in the belt loops on his uniform pants. 'You secure the house?'

The African-American officer, lemar according to his nameplate, shook his head. 'Yes, sir. I cleared the scene, radioed in. I was told to await arrival of CSI.'

Ryan nodded curtly and looked at Reid. The two men stepped inside the house. Ryan pulled out his MagLite and stopped Reid from switching on the lights. They moved through the house cautiously. Ryan instructed Reid to go upstairs. Ryan placed his kit on the floor and did a quick sweep of the lower floor. The living room was furnished with modern furnishing, in cream and grey. There was a large flatscreen-TV, affixed to the wall, with a DVR-set on the metal-and-glass table underneath. There were several magazines on the matching coffee table; mostly general interest, a spots magazine, a Newsweek and a Men's Health. All were subscriptions, Ryan noticed, as all of them had an address-sticker on them.

The kitchen was spacious, with the same colourscheme: grey and cream. Ryan checked for a door, but there was none. The backdoor was again ebony, but inset with glass panes. Ryan saw the small backyard, where there was some cheap garden furniture; standard green plastic table and four chairs and two lounge chairs. There was a green wooden shed with a corrugated iron roof. The shed was padlocked. Against the wall of the shed rested a gas barbecue, which was clearly Frank's pride. Now that he found himself in Frank's home he realised how little he knew about the Sergeant that wasn't work-related. Ryan sighed and turned back to the hallway. He grabbed his kit and started walking up the stairs. Halfway up he heard rummaging upstairs. Then suddenly there was a loud bang. Ryan unsnapped his holster and drew his Beretta. He aimed it at the top of the stairs. He grabbed his MagLite and crossed his right arm underneath his gun hand, the beam of the flashlight parallel to the gun's barrel. Lemar ambled in, gun in hand. Ryan instructed him to guard the stairs. Slowly he climbed the last steps of the stairs. He stepped into the master bedroom, where he found Reid on his feet.

'Reid?'

'Detective Wolfe,' Reid said, flustered when he noticed the gun in Ryan's hand. 'I'm sorry, I fell over the dumbbell over there.'

Ryan followed the agent's pointing finger to a ten-pound dumbbell, which had fallen from a stack of other dumbbells. He sighed and holstered his weapon. He placed his hands on his hips and looked at the room. The bed was made of a light type of wood, the coverings simple Wal-Mart linen. The bed was slept, but the sheets had been rummaged and tossed about. There were drag marks in the burgundy long pile carpeting. Ryan pulled his notebook and pen from the back pocket of his jeans and jotted something down. He then went back to the stairs. He relieved Lemar and took his kit upstairs. He started photographing the room.

'Seems like there was a fight in here,' Reid said.

'It seems so. Have you seen Sergeant Tripp?'

'No, I haven't. Why?'

'Frank is a big guy. He played football in high school and never lost the physique. He'd never go with them willingly. However, the part I am worried about is whether or not they took his on-duty weapon.'

'I imagine you are. No, if I were a PD Sergeant, I'd probably keep my weapon somewhere near my bed.'

Ryan lifted an eyebrow as Reid stalked over to the night stand. He pulled open the drawer and found a gun case. It wasn't password protected, but simply padlocked. Reid took out his lock picking set. He picked the lock and peered inside.

'Uh, Detective Wolfe? You're gonna want to see this…'

Ryan walked over to the agent. He peered into the gun case, as well. Frank's gun was missing, his empty holster and badge the only things inside. Ryan snapped off a couple of pictures and sighed.

Back at MDPD headquarters, the CSIs and the FBI agents met up in the CSI conference room. Hotchner and Morgan still in their windbreakers, Reid the only FBI agent dressed in slacks, a grey shirt with blue tie and brown cardigan. Everybody plumped into the chairs around the table. Ryan, Hotchner, Horatio and Morgan pulled out their notepads and tossed them on the table with a sigh.

'So, Mr. Wolfe,' Horatio said, turning to his CSI. 'What did you and Dr. Reid find at Tripp's house?'

'Not much. There were signs of a struggle in the master bedroom. His duty weapon is missing as well. I already called it in to dispatch, who updated the BOLO.'

BOLO was an acronym for Be On The Look-Out. It basically meant that everyone working with Dade County, the local governments of the cities within the county's limits and all law enforcement personnel within Dade County borders kept an eye out for Tripp, his gun and his car.

'Yes, we fed them the description of Sergeant Tripp's Taurus. I believe his duty vehicle was also his personal vehicle?'

Horatio shook his head, 'No, he uses a champagne Taurus as a duty vehicle and a blue as a personal vehicle. He really liked the make and model. Though he has a gumball for his personal vehicle.

'I think that's all we can do, for now. Until we have some solid leads, let's get some rest. See you all in the morning.'

And after those parting words, the CSIs and FBI agents all rose and left the conference room. Only Horatio remained behind, staring at what the team had dubbed the murder board. Frank Tripp's ID headshot was put under the heading VICTIM. Horatio sighed, turned on his heels and went to his office. Seemed like once again he was going to use the foldable bed he had bought the previous month. It beat the couch he had used before.

Frank Tripp stirred on the chair. He was blindfolded and blood trickled down the side of his face. His nose itched from the dried blood that had sprouted from it when he had been hit across the face. Tripp sighed, and tried to move his arms, but he immediately felt the sharp sting of the zip ties used to bind his wrists. He winced and stopped wriggling. He shook his head violently in an attempt to shake of the blindfold. Slowly, but gradually the cloth slid down his face and over his nose. Suddenly it dropped around his neck.

He was being held captive in a dark room, most likely underground. The latter was odd, as most houses and buildings in Miami didn't have any basements anymore. Miami lay under sea-level entirely, so in case of floods all basements would fill up with water. However, some houses built in the early years of the last century still had basements, though these houses were more frequently found in the smaller conglomerated cities as Coral Gables and Coconut Grove.

Tripp heard scuffling at the floor above. He heard muffled voices of at least three persons, judging by the rhythm and timbre all male. Tripp listened. It seemed as though one of them was pacing up and down the room above, as his voice moved from one end of the room to the other, in accordance with the footsteps. Suddenly, the voice that had been moving about sounded very adamant. There was no reply from the others.

Slowly, footsteps came down stairs of some sort. There was a heavy metal door, which was slightly rusted due to the salty air, behind which were, Frank suspected, the stairs. There was the clanking of keys and a few seconds later the _click_ of the lock springing open. The door opened with a loud creak and a man stepped inside. He wore his weapon – a stainless steel Smith & Wesson semi-auto – Mexican-style and he was wearing army green cargo pants and a black T-shirt. He wore his brown hair in a buzz cut and he was clean-shaven. He was well-muscled and his entire demeanour screamed Marine to Frank.

'So, Mr. Copper.' His accent was not American, with a profound 'r'. Frank wasn't all that up to date with the English accents, but it seemed Irish to him. 'I see you've been busy trying to get out. Good job on shaking off that blindfold.'

'Yeah, well. Using a rag is kinda old-school when abducting a cop, isn't it?'

'Guess so. Anyway, next time it won't be so easy to shake of the darn thing.'

From one of the leg pockets of his cargo's he pulled a roll of duct tape. He rolled off a piece and tore it off. He taped it over Frank's mouth.

'So, copper. You be good now. We are going to give that Lieutenant-pall of yours a ring and set him an ultimatum. And if they don't comply…' He dramatically pulled his Smith & Wesson and cocked the hammer. He pointed it at Frank's head and let it buck, without pulling the trigger. He then released the hammer with a snarl.

16


	5. Chapter 5

**5**

Horatio went into the layout room of the lab. He had slept a couple of hours, had pulled the new shirt from his file cabinet and had cleaned himself up quickly. He pulled on the lab coat embroidered with his name and rank and heaved the evidence box from the truck stop bombing – and related events – onto the light table. He started with the evidence from the BMW. He waved over a lab technician passing by and Horatio instructed her to bring the items to the appropriate departments for further analysis. He then hung back his lab coat and rode the elevator downstairs to the garage.

Three minutes later he pulled on tan coveralls with the MDPD's crest on the chest. He slipped his MagLite into one of the leg pockets and walked over to the car in the middle of the garage, carrying his silver attaché case field kit. He placed it on the concrete floor with an echoing bang. At this hour he was the only person in the garage, after all it was only six o'clock in the morning. Horatio hoped to find some evidence related to the person who had driven the car, and possibly the identity of Frank's abductor. He started by slicing the seals tape over the doors with his pen knife. As he had searched the car superficially at the scene where it was discovered, he started with a more thorough search this time.

He started with fingerprints. The interior of the BMW was black leather, so the white fingerprinting powder would adhere nicely. He opened his kit, pulled out his fingerprinting gear – brush, powder and lifting tape with attached black film to read the prints more easily – and snapped on translucent latex gloved. He screwed the lid off the powder jar and dipped the brush in it. He then gently and slowly applied the powder to the steering wheel. When he had finished he took out his camera and snapped pictures of the steering wheel. He then took close-ups of the latent prints he uncovered. Lastly, he lifted the prints using the tape. Whenever he had lifted a print he dropped the paper – with his initials – into an evidence box labeled CAR_BMW and the case number. When he had systematically dusted the entire dashboard and door handles, he got out and stretched. He checked his watch: 7 am.

Next on his list was the carpeting. He took out a mini-vacuum cleaner. The suction mount was affixed to a tube, which transported the air – and everything in it – to a filter. The filter filtered out larger chunks of dirt, which could contain valuable pieces of evidence. After each mat and chair, Horatio had to refresh the filter. He dropped every filter in a petri-dish, put the lid on it and sealed it. These he placed in the evidence box as well. All in all it took Horatio forty-five minutes to vacuum the entire vehicle. When he was done, he stretched and ran a hand over his forehead. He felt the sweat trickle down his back.

Horatio had already taken a sample of the TNT from the backseat, but he had to give Trace a larger sample to test. The thing about the American judicial system was that when a case went to trial, the District Attorney had to hand in enough evidence for the defense attorney – and it's experts – to test for their own when there was reasonable suspicion of shoddy police work. Horatio and his team always made sure they had their ducks in a row before handing a case over to the DA's office, but they had once had a case thrown out because the DA had pressed the team for a quick resolve of the case. There wasn't enough evidence left for the defense to test, which lead to a mistrial on a technicality. Horatio took out his penknife again and cut out a pizza box-size swatch of the backseat's leather. This he put in a brown evidence bag which he sealed with red evidence tape.

The last stop in Horatio's investigation of the car was the trunk. He pulled the trunk latch next to the driver's seat and moved to the rear of the car. He opened the lid and used his MagLite to light the inside. There wasn't much to be found visually, so Horatio took out the vacuum cleaner again. When he was finished he checked his watch again. 8:30 am.

Ryan Wolfe suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder. He thought he had his OCD fairly under control, but whenever there was some sort of stress in his personal life – be it a family member suffering from a disease or a colleague being abducted (which was the case now) – it reared its head. Usually it occurred as some benign symptoms, for instance noticing patterns which others did not, but it could turn into a full-blown breakdown. He had once experienced this and he had been declared unfit for duty until his breakdown had subsided. It had taken three months.

Ryan came into work early. The dayshift didn't officially start until 11 am, but it was 9.30 when Ryan came in. He stepped out of the elevator, took a left and stepped into the locker room. He opened his locker and hung his leather jacket inside. He grabbed his ID, which he carried on a beaded chain at the lab, and hung it around his neck. He put his gym bag onto the floor of his locker – he always took a clean change of clothes to work, in case he had to do some messy task. His next stop was the office he shared with Eric Delko. He plumped into the chair behind his frost glass desk and booted up his Mac. MDPD had recently switched from Windows to Mac, in accordance with the rest of municipal Miami.

Eric stalked into the office a few minutes later. Eric and Ryan had experienced some animosity in the first half year of their working relationship. Eric's sister Marisol had suffered from acute leukaemia and that had resulted in Eric spending a lot of time with his sister. Ryan had accused Eric of slacking off without knowing the reason why. They had been on the verge of fighting when later that day Ryan was shot in the eye with a nail gun. Eric had responded to Ryan's distress call and ever since that day there had been less rivalries. Horatio later scolded Eric for not trusting Ryan and that the whole 'rivalry' could have been avoided by being honest.

'Morning,' Eric said.

'Hey.'

'What are you doing here so early?'

'I could ask you the same,' Ryan said.

'H called me. He has processed the entire BMW. He found numerous prints, some of which look very promising. He wants them checked ASAP.'

Eric was the team's fingerprint expert. He supervised the Fingerprint department, which was basically a room with two long tables lined with computers. There were workstations along the glass wall where there were several chemicals used to develop fingerprints, one of which was a large Plexiglas box. The fuming cabinet, as it was called, was a large rectangular box with a burner. A steel rod spanned the entire width of the casket. The rod was used to hang evidence upon with clasps. Then, an aluminium basket with a few drops of superglue was placed on the burner. The fume rising from the basket adhered to the fats and acids in human fingerprints, resulting in a rendition of the prints left behind by whoever handled the object.

Eric stepped into his own domain, wearing his lab coat. Horatio method – using powder to render prints visible – yielded an enormous amount of fingerprint cards. All of whom had to be scanned. Eric logged into one of the workstations and booted up the scanner. He scanned the lifted prints six at a time and placed them in a folder on his Mac, labelled with the case number and PRINTS. When he had finished loading all the prints, he sat down on the wheeled stool at his computer and fed the prints into AFIS. AFIS was an acronym for _Automated Fingerprint Identification System_, a program developed by the FBI. It was basically a huge databank of fingerprints. Whenever a person was convicted his or her fingerprints were fed into AFIS. Whenever that person committed a crime again, these prints could be used to identify the criminal and arrest him quickly. An added value was that the results could be used to prove pattern.

Eric loaded all the prints recovered from the BMW into the program – a big plus was that AFIS could handle a lot of fingerprints at the time – and hit RUN. The analysis would take some time, so Eric swivelled his stool around and left the lab. He could use some coffee.

Horatio looked up when there was a short rap on the doorpost of his open office door. He waved Eric in. The lanky CSI walked up to his supervisor's desk and placed a manila folder on his desk. He rested against the file cabinet against the wall with his arms crossed while Horatio read the report. Eric had finished his fingerprint analysis and had put the results in the folder he had just handed his boss. Horatio eyes flicked over the twenty-page file. He looked up at his CSI when he was done reading.

'You double-checked?' he asked.

Eric nodded affirmatively, 'Had AFIS run them again. Same result.'

'You haven't told anyone about this yet?'

'Nope. Came straight here. Though the search has been saved within AFIS's history. Ever since that debacle involving PDs deleting search histories, the feds built in a firewall preventing us from deleting the searched we ran.'

'That's all right. I'm not about to sweep this under the rug. I want to confront him myself first.'

Eric was able to take a hint. He nodded curtly and left the office. Horatio had hand-picked Eric to become a CSI when he was still a tow truck driver, back in 1998. When Eric had helped Horatio solve a murder by finding the murder weapon Horatio had urged him to go to the police academy and talk to him when he got his badge. Horatio, then just promoted to head of CSI himself, held open a spot on the team. Overtime, Eric had learned to trust Horatio without prejudice. His boss was a keen detective with a good heart. This trust had deepened when, after initial opposition on Eric's part, Horatio married his sister Marisol. Their luck wasn't to last though. Marisol was killed a few days after the wedding. If Horatio wanted to confront the suspect himself first Eric wasn't going to oppose him.

Horatio swivelled his chair towards the window of his office. The floor-to-ceiling pane overlooked the Oceanside of Miami. He could see Washington, Miami and Lumus Beach – with the narrow strip of green called Lumus Park in between the beach and Lincoln Avenue – with the Pacific shimmering aquamarine in the distance. He sighed and clasped his hands behind his head, leaning back.

Though they hadn't been the best of friends when Tripp was assigned the CSI-liaison. Horatio's younger brother Raymond had been a Narcotics detective back in the day. Raymond did a lot of undercover work and some of the other detectives suspected him of being on the take. Horatio had always adamantly defended his brother, causing the same officers that had turned on Ray to turn on him. And then Ray was killed. Frank Tripp, still a rookie officer back then, took the call and told to everybody who would listen how "hinky" Ray Caine's death was. Horatio had come to respect Tripp over the years and the latter had recanted his radical views on how "dirty" Horatio had to be because of his brother's history.

He grabbed the phone horn and punched in a number. 'This is Lieutenant Caine with CSI. I need to speak with Sergeant Tripp's superior officer.'

Hector Rivera was the newly appointed Captain of Robbery/Homicide. Horatio had heard positive stories about him, even from Tripp. Exactly that was the reason why he wanted to talk to Rivera first. Rivera's fingerprints were recovered from the steering wheel of the BMW used to attack Horatio's CI two night before. Horatio was all for kicking a corrupt cop of the force, but not before all facts were in. Possibly there was a logical explanation for the prints.

The Robbery/Homicide bullpen looked like the floor of a modern financial company. Office cubicle were placed in groups of floor, nameplates on the Perspex walls. Officers walked about the carpeted floor, manila folders under their arms. At the far end of the bullpen were the two interrogation rooms with their glass walls. The observation room – with opaque walls and see-through mirrors into the interrogation rooms – was wedged in between. The Captain's office was located against the western wall, a bulge protruding from said wall. The blinds were hoisted up and Horatio saw Captain Rivera typing something out on his Mac. Horatio ambled down the bullpen, dodging questions from officers and detectives as he went. He rapped the pane door and waited.

'Enter,' a gruff voice said.

Horatio went into the office, where Rivera was just dropping his reading glasses on the blotter of his metal desk. He stood up and held out a hand.

'Lieutenant Caine,' he said. 'Pleasure to meet you.'

Rivera was dressed nicely; grey shirt, black tie and black slacks. His blazer hung on the coat hook in the corner behind the desk.

'Likewise,' Horatio said. He shook the captain's hand and dropped into one of the two guest chairs in front of the desk. He placed the manila folder with the AFIS-report on his lap.

'To what do I owe the pleasure?'

'Frank Tripp,' Horatio said.

'Yes, it's a tragedy. He is one of the best RHD Sergeants. I'm very pleased to have someone like him working for me. He might make Captain himself if he keeps going like this.'

Horatio decided that it was time to skip the pleasantries. 'Yes, that's right. But that's not why I am here. I'm here partially for myself, though.'

'How can I help?'

Horatio opened the folder and handed the report to Rivera. He let the information sink in for a while before speaking again. He studied the Captain's reaction; a slight squinting of the eyes, a short and hardly audible gasp of air. Rivera's pupils went wide.

'Can you explain,' Horatio said softly. 'how your prints were recovered from a vehicle used in a crime?'

'I – I can't…' Rivera said, his hands trembling. He tossed the report on his desk and Horatio slipped it back into the folder.

'You'd better come up with an explanation real quick,' Horatio said, without any trace of threat. 'Otherwise IAD is going to have a field day when skinning you. And you know they will.'

'Are you going to turn in that report to IAD?'

'You know I have to, Hector. I can stall it for twenty-four hours, but not longer. When you figure out how your prints got onto that vehicle come and find me. Then we'll go see IAD together.'

Horatio closed the folder and stood up. He turned to the door and started crossing the office. When he reached the jamb Rivera cleared his throat.

'Horatio,' he said. 'You find him. I don't care what happens to me, but I don't want to lose one helluva detective.'

Horatio smiled at him. 'Neither do I.'

Sunlight soaked the parking area along the narrow strip of green that was Lummus Park. Along the curb to the entrance stood a black Chevy Suburban. Morgan turned up the AC, earning him a sideways glance from Prentiss. She smiled in herself and looked out the window. She had perched sunglasses on her head and now she slid them down to her nose. The sun stung in her eyes. Miami was totally different from D.C., where even in summer she had to wear a blazer to keep warm. This morning she had left the blazer she wore initially at the hotel and opted for a sleeveless burgundy top and loose-fitting cotton slacks.

'Hey Morgan,' she said.

'What?'

She pointed through the window, her finger trained on a figure walking through the crowd. Parks were popular places to spend a warm day. Much to the dismay of the malls, but to the delight of the stands selling beverages and snacks.

'That's our guy, isn't it?'

Morgan leaned over to the window. 'Yeah, that's him.'

The FBI agents got out of the SUV and walked down the path leading into the park. The figure Prentiss pointed out earlier stalked down a side path. He stood out because of his hooded sweater with the hood pulled over his head. He had thrust his arms into the pockets of his faded and torn jeans and ambled through the park. It seemed he was in a hurry. Morgan and Prentiss followed.

'Where's he going?' Prentiss muttered under her breath.

Morgan only shrugged. The figure led them to a derelict building near the park, behind the row of _art deco_ buildings that lined Miami's beach front. They followed him through the alley between a trendy hotel and even more trendy club, both painted pastel blue. The figure shot in through the side entrance of the building. Morgan and Prentiss raised eyebrows to each other and before they knew they had pulled their guns.

Morgan went in first, using the tac-flash affixed to his SIG to light the interior of the building. They stepped into a dark room, which hadn't seen a maintenance worker, painter or a contractor in at least twenty years. Furniture – which once had been wooden chairs and a two-seater sofa – lay decayed and broken. Dust twirled in the air and the once wooden floor was covered with a carpet of it. Prentiss steps were muffled by it. Morgan signalled to the door ahead. They traversed the room and took post at either side of the door. Prentiss placed a hand on the knob and looked at Morgan. A nod. She turned the knob and Morgan stepped into the next room.

'Clear,' he whispered.

A stainless steel surgery table dominated the room, but Prentiss guessed it hadn't seen a patient in years. Besides, it was too small for a human body to lie on it. There were muffled voices and Prentiss strained to hear where they came from. There was a passage leading to what she guessed was a back room.

'Backroom,' she whispered, pointing to the archway she spotted.

Morgan nodded and the two FBI agents took post on one side of the arch, as the other was directly adjacent to the wall and would expose them to whoever was lurking behind it. Morgan held up three fingers. The two. Then one.

'FBI!' they yelled in unison, bursting through the arch and training their weapons on two figures in the dark. 'Nobody move!'

'Get your hands where I can see them!' Morgan commanded.

'Like hell!'

Suddenly, one of the figures moved and stepped behind the second. The latter collapsed a few seconds later, blood erupting from the neck. Morgan swore under his breath. The figure that just attacked the other went out a door, leading to the street.

'Go!' Prentiss said.

Morgan went after the fleeing suspect while Prentiss ambled over to the fallen figure. She holstered her gun and sat on her haunches. She removed the hood. A pretty face looked up at her, with eyes that saw nothing. The woman couldn't have been much older than twenty-two. Her blonde hair became soaked in the blood pooled on the floor. Her throat was slit so violently that it seemed as though the killer had slit clean through it.

Prentiss swore.


	6. Chapter 6

6

Fluorescent lamps on stands were lit to light the interior of the derelict building. Police officers guarded the door and an ambulance had been called in to transport the body to the Dade County Morgue – conveniently situated in the MDPD HQ basement. Horatio had sent Ryan Wolfe to process the scene.

Morgan and Prentiss were being scolded at by Hotchner, was – to put it mildly – not amused by the pair of them going off to interview an informant without letting Horatio or him know. Ryan sidestepped the steaming FBI agent, hardly able to mask his grin at the guilty faces the others were making. The grinning stopped when he stepped into the building.

Tom Loman sat hunched over the body, his kit on the floor next to him. He touched the wound in the neck.

'Dr. Loman,' Ryan said, snapping on gloves and taking out his camera.

'Ryan,' the doctor replied.

Ryan sat on his haunches on the other side of the body. He looked at the woman's face.

'Cause of death seems pretty clear to me,' Loman continued. 'Severed carotid. She must have bled out in seconds.'

'Well, at least it was painless,' Ryan said, snapping three photos of the wound.

'Yes, well. That's about the only thing positive about this whole thing.'

Ryan nodded in agreement.

'What did the FBI agents do here?'

'I think they were here to meet an informant of some sort.'

'Last I heard, agent Prentiss was with the victim when she died. We couldn't have had a more accurate TOD. One-thirty pm.'

'Less than an hour ago.'

'Yes. Is it okay for me to take her?'

'Hold on a sec,' Ryan said. He dropped an evidence marker next to the body and photographed its position in the room. He then nodded. Loman waved in the EMTs and instructed them to drop off the body at the morgue. Loman himself would drive back in his ME's van. Ryan stepped back to let them through and bid his goodbye to Loman. Loman estimated his preliminary report to be finished around dinner time.

Ryan turned to the place where the woman just lay. He sat on his haunches again and snapped a picture of the blood pool that had formed next to the woman's head. He also took some photos of the arterial spray that had erupted from the neck wound. Ryan's eyes went wide as he thought of something. He got up and sprinted outside.

'Morgan! Prentiss!' he called. 'I need a word!'

He caught up to the agents, who seemed a bit pissed at the scolding they just received. The agents look at him.

'What's up?'

'Was the killer next to the victim or diagonally behind her?'

'Diagonally behind,' Prentiss answered. 'Why?'

'Come on.'

Prentiss, Morgan and Hotchner followed Ryan back inside. Ryan ambled up to the splashes of blood on the wall. He kneeled and waved over the FBI-agents. The two of them kneeled next to him.

'Look,' Ryan said, pointing a gloved finger at a void in the splash pattern. 'There's a void in the arterial spray. See these splashes?'

Morgan squinted and looked at the splashes. 'The pattern is broken by some object that was in the spraying field.'

Ryan nodded and looked at the shape and size of the void. 'Judging by shape and size, the wall was obstructed by a human body, most likely male.'

'Seems about right,' said Morgan, standing up. 'I chased the killer down and he had the size and posture of a grown man. About six foot, baggy track pants and hoodie. Never saw his face.'

Ryan looked at Morgan. 'I'll update the BOLO. Killer must've been drenched in the victim's blood.'

'I doubt it would be useful,' Prentiss said. 'Blood on black clothing doesn't stand out that much. Besides, we don't have a clear description of the killer.'

'So, what's our next move?'

Prentiss smiled devilishly. 'Now? Now, I call in a favour.'

She turned around and punched in a number on her BlackBerry.

Horatio stepped into his office and held open the door for the woman following him inside. She was tall, with an Asian appearance – including the sturdy black hair, which cascaded down to her shoulders – and slim build. She carried a brown attaché bag and dropped into one of the guest chairs in front of Horatio's desk, while the latter closed the office door.

Rebecca Nevins was Miami's Assistant U.S. Attorney and had prosecuted many of the CSI-team's cases. She had called Horatio when the news of Rivera's fingerprints in the BMW had reached her office. Horatio had invited her to his office, in an attempt to exact some damage control.

'Horatio,' Nevins said, her voice cold and measured, her gaze piercing. 'Why did you neglect to tell me about the fingerprints you discovered in the BMW yesterday?'

'Because the results weren't complete yet. As you know, my team like to double check every result. Besides, not all fingerprints recovered from the car were tested yet. Eric Delko was still in the process of doing so.'

'Cut the BS,' Nevins snapped as she unsnapped the buckle of her bag. 'We both know you were covering for the Robbery/Homicide Captain. I understand, the whole "brothers in blue"-act goes pretty deep.'

Horatio shot one of his trademark killer glares at Nevins. 'You know as well as I do that is not true.'

'Then tell me, Horatio. What was it?'

'Me trying to protect the good name the Miami-Dade Police Department – and thereby the name of_ my_ unit – wasn't smudged by rushed conclusions of corruption. I went to talk to Captain Hernandez and he will be available for questioning later this morning. It would do you good to go down to the cafeteria and have a coffee.'

Nevins shook her head, 'Nuh-uh. You call him, right here and right now. Tell him to get his butt in your office, _pronto_.'

Horatio sighed, nodded in defeat and picked up the horn of his desk phone. He punched in an extension and listened for a while, tapping his thumb on the edge of his desk. He waited some more and then dropped the horn back on the receiver with a sigh. He picked it up again and punched in a different extension. He waited a few seconds until a _click_ told him the call had been connected.

'Sergent Cruz,' a female voice said.

'Jennifer, it's Horatio Caine. Could you tell me if Captian Hernandez came into work today?'

'No, he didn't. No one's seem him today. I tried his home phone, but there was no answer.'

'Any idea as to where he could be?'

'No, Lieutenant. Your guess is as good as mine.'

Horatio thanked the Sergeant and looked at Nevins, who glared back with barely hidden excitement. He shook his head. Nevins face clouded over and she opened her bag with a yank. She pulled out her cell phone and punched in a speed dial. She got up, leaving the bag in her chair and stepped outside the office to make her call. Horatio side and pulled out his own cell phone. He punched in a text message and sent it to the entire CSI-team, as well as the FBI-agents.

Twenty minutes later everybody had gathered in the CSI conference room. Horatio closed the door when Wolfe hurried in and took post at the head of the table. He looked at his men sternly. Next to him stood Rebecca Nevins in her navy pants suit. Horatio cleared his throat.

'We've uncovered some new information on the BMW used to attack my CI,' he said. 'When I processed the car I uncovered a plethora of fingerprints. Several of them came back to Captain Hernandez of Robbery/Homicide.'

'Wait, prints in car used by terrorists came back to Tripp's boss?' Calleigh exclaimed.

'Yes. I had a talk with Mr. Hernandez and he was supposed to come in for questioning this morning, but he never showed.'

'If you don't mind my saying,' Reid said from his chair. 'but wasn't it a bit too _trusting_ to assume that Captain Hernandez would actually come in?'

'Perhaps,' Horatio said. 'I saw it as professional curtosy.'

'I can't say I wouldn't have done the same, Reid,' Hotchner said. 'But, nonetheless, this is a very inconvenient situation, Lieutenant. What happens if Hernandez is indeed involved with the terrorist group? He will undoubtedly meet up with them.'

'I realise that. We already put out an APB on his car and Ms. Nevins has requested a search warrant for his home.'

'I expect it to be signed any minute by Judge Jeffries. I'm expecting a call from my assistant, who's been sent to have the warrant signed.'

'What do you want us to do?' Eric asked.

'Eric. You, me and Calleigh will search Captain Hernandez' home. Agent Hotchner, can I ask you to have Ms. Garcia activate and trace the GPS in Captain Hernandez' phone and private vehicle?'

'Is that legal?'

'Should be covered by the warrant,' Nevins said.

'All right,' Hotchner said. 'Morgan, make the call.'

'Ms. Boa Vista and Mr. Wolfe, go over every piece of evidence we've gathered. That is, until the GPS-fix on Henrandez comes in. When it does, you two, and whichever FBI-agent is HRT-trained move out to take him down. I'll make sure SWAT's standing by.'

As expected, the warrant came back within the hour, the ink of the judge's signature still wet. The warrant was handed to Horatio, who tucked it in the inside pocket of his MDPD raid jacket. He then stepped into one of the Hummers and drove to Hernandez' home. Horatio parked along the curb and got out, unsnapping his holster as he went. He instructed the others to unsnap theirs as well.

'All right, people. We don't know if our mark is in there or not, so keep your eyes peeled!'

The trio of CSIs walked up the front walk and Horatio climbed the three steps leading up to the white front door. The Venetian door gave him a slight view of the hallway inside, which seemed deserted. He holstered his SIG and took out his lock-picking kit. He opened the lock without any real difficulty, redrew his gun and opened the door which swung inside. Once inside he stopped. He signalled Calleigh to go upstairs and Eric to check the garage. Horatio would check the living room and kitchen himself.

The first room he stumbled upon was the living room. The room was large, with ceiling-high windows giving a panoramic view of the large back garden. The furniture was contemporary and light, cream and light-grey. There was a cream two-seater couch with two matching chairs. There was a light-grey carpet on the floor and a modern painting with the same colour-setting as the furniture. Horatio heard a cracking sound on the wooden floorboards and immediately raised his weapon, but it turned out to be Hernandez' cat. The house was a typical bachelor pad, with no photographs or any other "feminine" touches.

The kitchen was a continuation of the same colours: cream cupboards with grey counter tops and stainless steel appliances. There was a glass dining table with cream IKEA-chairs. Horatio checked the room but found nothing. He holstered his weapon and went back to the foyer.

Eric came stumbling through the door leading to the garage, his olive skin paled. He breathed heavily and needed to grab the banister to keep his balance. Horatio hurried over to Eric and grabbed him by the shoulders.

'Eric, what's wrong?'

'It's Hernandez,' Eric panted. 'He's not missing. He's right here, in the garage.'

'In the garage?'

'You better go see it for yourself,' Eric said, standing up straight. 'I need some air.'

Horatio nodded to his CSI and waited till he was outside. Then he inhaled some clean air and went through the door leading to the garage.

'This is bad, Horatio,' Calleigh said, her complexion pale with disgust.

'I agree.'

Tom Loman was kneeling in front of Captain Hernandez' corpse. Someone had shackled the police man to some rings in the concrete wall behind him with heavy chains. Then they had taken some kind of sharp instrument and went to town. The cop had been cut, scraped with a cheese grater, beaten, flogged and submitted to every imaginable form of torture. Loman was kneeling in front of the body, looking at several of the wounds. Calleigh was taking notes on the types of injury inflicted to the body and Horatio was taking pictures of Captain Hernandez and the rest of the basement.

'Various cuts and bruises all over the decedents torso and face, a head wound to the left temple due to blunt force trauma and a large bruise in the renal region of the torso. Most likely with internal haemorrhaging. Cause of death is of yet undetermined.'

'Can't you make an educated guess, doctor?' Horatio asked.

'Not a chance, Horatio. There's just too much trauma to reach a conclusion. I need to get him on my table and examine him further. He's first on my list.'

'Thank you, doctor.'

Only after the coroner's assistant and Loman had heaved the body upstairs, Eric could muster the courage to get back into the garage; kit in one hand, paper handkerchief in the other. He pressed the handkerchief to his mouth. Both Horatio and Calleigh had applied some VapoRub under their noses to counter the stench of the body. According to Loman, Hernandez had been killed around ten the night after Horatio talked to him at MDPD.

'What do you want me to do, H?' Eric asked.

'Confer with RHD. They're smelling blood. Sergeant Cruz's got first point on succeeding Hernandez. She'll be rallying the troops right about now. Talk to her, see if she can use an extra pair of hands.'

'Will do, H.'

Eric turned to go back into the house when Horatio said, 'Oh. Eric? When she plans to do anything brazen, warn me. I'm the highest ranking officer as of now.'

Calleigh walked up to Horatio, looking at Eric walking out of the garage. 'Ya think the Chief is going to make Cruz RHD-Captain?'

'She's got the qualifications and she _was_ second-in-command. However, tempers are high and I think the brass is trying to avoid mass-retaliation. They'll probably fly in someone impartial to the unit until the storm blows over.'

Horatio cell chimed in his pocket and he excused himself to take the call. Calleigh turned back to the wall Hernandez had been shackled to. She took pictures and used a power saw to collect the pins from the wall. Loman had already removed Hernandez' shackles and they clanged as the pins came down. She bagged them in separate boxes with her initials on the seal. Then she turned to the main house again. They hadn't started processing it yet, as the torture and inhuman display of Hernandez' body had warranted their full attention.

She started in the house's vestibule and diverted her attention to the double front doors. She instructed the uniformed officer outside to keep everybody away from the entrance. First up was the lock.

Using a digital magnifier, Calleigh looked at the outside of the lock – the brass plate in the door –, hunting for scratch markings and other signs of a break-in. There were some scratches on the plate, but none that were unexpected: there was inevitably going to be some wear-and-tear in the everyday use of the lock. She made a note on het notepad, making clear there was no indication of B&E on the front door lock.

After a half hour of looking at locks and windows, Calleigh had found no point of entry for the killer. Whoever it had been, Hernandez had opened the door for them.


End file.
